


nothing wrong with me (loving you)

by splatticus



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Friends With Benefits, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-25 13:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17122322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splatticus/pseuds/splatticus
Summary: Adjusting to new realities is easy for Tyson. So one of his buds is slightly demonic and/or cursed so he requires bimonthly macking. That's not gonna keep him up at night. So what? Information received and processed.





	nothing wrong with me (loving you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [junkeroni (hotdammneron)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotdammneron/gifts).



> Title from "Let's Get It On," with all apologies to Marvin Gaye. Thank you to poppy and ripples on the hockey discord for helping me get acquainted with the Avs, and Elikat for handholding despite her lack of interest in hockey.
> 
> Please see the end notes for more detailed (slightly spoilery) fic warnings.

JT tells him the morning they start looking for a house. Tyson giggles when he first hears it, which might not have been respectful. "What the fuck?" he says.

No eye contact from JT yet, not since Tyson let him and Kerfy into his hotel room. JT squirms, scratching his nose before he finally responds with, "I figured before you commit to this whole shared space thing you should, uh, have all the facts. So there it is."

"And the fact is… you're a sex demon." 

Kerfy launches himself--actually goes headfirst--to the carpeted floor and howls in laughter. JT just looks pained, his hand raking through his hair in frustration.

"God, okay. _Okay._ I know I'm not in the position to make demands, but we're gonna have to ban that phrase from our lives. I'm--the term is right there in the articles!" 

The first thing JT and Kerfy did when Tyson let them into his hotel room that morning was sit him down on the foot of the bed, with Kerfy dragging two chairs and setting them directly in front of Tyson. A makeshift huddle. Then they handed him an iPad with half a dozen tabs that contained long-ass articles about demonic creatures called incubi and succubi. 

He glossed over them, frankly, making just enough scrolling motions on the iPad screen to appease Kerfy's eagle eyes before he looked back at them with impatience and demanded to know what the fuck was up. And then JT uttered a sentence that tilted Tyson's world on its axis: _"So, like, I'm one of those."_

And it's like that declaration tripped up something in Tyson's brain that supplies intelligent responses, because now he can only come up with: "I don't know how to pronounce those words, though."

"Christ."

Kerfy, in between occasional laughing fits, pipes up from the floor, "Look on the bright side, Comphy. At least he doesn't thinking that you're punking him."

Of course he knows JT's not acting. He's been around him enough to know his poker face is as terrible as Tyson's. There's a look of genuine distress on JT's expression, a tightness in his jaw. The kind that Tyson wants to smooth out with a joke or a hug. He can't pull off this kind of elaborate deception, especially one where he claims that he's a--that he does--

Tyson looks down at Kerfy. "You already know this?"

Kerfy sits up and rests his hands on his knees. Tyson knows he's putting on his non-threatening college boy face. "Yeah, Josty. Whose mad research skills do you think came up with those? I had to find resources that didn't include the shit about creeping into people's bed for nonconsensual sex, which Comphy said he definitely doesn't do. Right, buddy?"

JT clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, "Uh, right. I mean, I don't like, put people in a thrall or paralyze them or whatever. That's not a thing. There's a lot of misinformation out there."

Tyson looks back down at the iPad, and reads through the displayed article again, this time a little more closely. It talks about an incubus needing life energy to survive, about sex triggering access to the astral plane, about unimaginable pleasure that can open up a human so that he leaks vitality out of his pores, enough that an incubus can momentarily feed on him, satiate his hunger.

It makes Tyson feel lightheaded again, trying to apply this to JT, so he latches on the detail that strikes him as the most important in the reality he knows. "You told Kerfy before me?"

"Well--"

"You've known me for way longer!" 

JT's gaze slides towards Kerfy and just like that, it's easy to conjure up feelings of outrage. Kerfy came to rookie camp at the end of August, barely a month ago. JT and Tyson have already been living out of each other's pockets since March, when the team said fuck it and let the young guys play out the rest of the wasted season. It's probably a weird way to think about it, but Tyson feels that JT is more his than Kerfy's. It kind of stings, to witness someone else doing the wordless communication thing with him.

"JT knows something like this isn't gonna phase me." Kerfy says, still all condescending and patient. "Harvard has had way more public and embarrassing hockey curses. You've probably never encountered any at UND yet since you didn't stay long enough."

"I was there for a year." He hasn't seen anything personally, though he's heard of rumors going around in the lockers.

"And for half of it you were training and playing in World Juniors. That hardly counts."

There's a garble of retorts on the tip of his tongue--he personally knows several players from Team Canada who've suffered from body switches and truth curses, he's not like some naive child--but then JT shoots out an arm between him and Kerfy, glaring at them both. "Hey, enough! This isn't the point."

"What is the point then?" Tyson demands.

JT swears again and stands up, walking towards the balcony. For a second, Tyson is afraid that his next steps will lead him towards the door and out. But then he turns back to face the bed with his arms folded over his chest, his face closed off and determined. In just a white polo and cargo shorts, he still looks the most imposing and untouchable that Tyson's ever seen him.

"The point is that if we're gonna live together, this is something that you need to know. I might have to bring people over. I mean, if I need to. It might come up during roadies. I didn't want to spring this on you when you've already signed part of the lease and putting down money for a place and you can't get out."

He takes a breath. Then sighs. "You can back out if it makes you uncomfortable. I promise I won't get mad. I'm sure you'll find a different place if--I heard Nate Mac's got space."

"No!" Tyson shouts. He folds his arms over his chest, mirroring JT. "Why are you assuming I'll do something like that? Do you think that badly of me?"

JT sighs. "Josty, you know that's not it. I'm just--it's a big ask."

"Okay? So you'll have different girls do the walk of shame every night--"

"First of all, it's just twice a month. And uh," JT pauses, looks away. "It might be guys, too."

JT should be given a limit to how many times he's allowed to blow Tyson's mind within the span of a morning. "I didn't know you liked guys."

"It hasn't exactly been relevant conversation."

Surely Tyson's flirted with enough men at bars to indicate his comfort with the idea. Why hasn't JT said anything about this before? Putting aside the incubus thing, if Tyson had known that JT is receptive, he may have angled a bit of his flirtation into something more direct there. Like, he's always idly wondered how that beard would feel against his skin.

"Obviously, either doesn't matter to me. So fuck off with that living in different places thing. We're still gonna be roommates." Tyson bites his lips. "Do you still want to?"

JT runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking suddenly shy. "Of course I do, man."

They both startle when Kerfy claps his hands. "Great, now that's settled! Let's call the realtor back now. I don't want to be homeless at puck drop."

-

He's used to the way JT and Kerfy get slightly patronizing around him, using his age and inexperience to exclude him from conversations--about mutual friends in the NCAA, the mysterious rituals of college, even their fan theories of the entire Patrick Roy experience. It grates at him, but he knows complaining is only gonna make him look worse. He's not gonna play into their hands and become too annoying or eager about learning more

Adjusting to new realities is easy for Tyson. So one of his buds is slightly demonic and/or cursed so he requires bimonthly macking. That's not gonna keep him up at night. He's not gonna suddenly splash JT with holy water. So what? Information received and processed. 

-

"What do you know about sex curses?"

Mathew Barzal stares back at him from the FaceTime app for a long wordless moment, before he bellows, "Tito! Get in here!"

"What's wrong?" A far off voice shouts back.

"Josty's back on his bullshit again. I need moral support."

Tyson rolls his eyes and mouths _fuck you_ at the screen. He watches as a shadow falls over Mat's form and he shimmies sideways to make room for a shirtless Tito. Then Mat turns back to him and says, "Okay, ask us that dumb thing again."

He tries to do nothing but glare, but he genuinely needs the advice so he gives in. Adds, "I just want to know the etiquette or whatever. A couple of the guys we know, they had to have sex so they could switch back to their own bodies, right? So if you're helping out a teammate with a curse, that's still normal buddies territory?"

"There's no 'normal buddies territory,' Josty," Mat butts in. "Listen to yourself."

"I'm not talking to you anymore. You forfeited the chance to give me advice--"

"How do you manage to inhale and exhale, being this stupid?"

"--go away and buy your own shower curtains already! I'm talking to Tito now."

He feels a little smug when Tito actually takes the phone from him and walks away with it, despite Mat's protests. Tito goes into what looks like their kitchen and sits down before he says, all gentle, "I mean this without any judgment, but did your teammate tell you or did you snoop on your own?"

"Of course he told me!"

"My answer depended on it, okay? If it was the second one, I would've said that you need to take the secret to your grave." He looks up at something offscreen, making weird faces. Probably doing that talking without talking thing with Mathew, the exact same silent communication that JT is developing with Kerfy.

When he turns back to Tyson, he says, "But since he told you, just ask him how he wants it to be dealt with and respect his wishes."

The patient tone in Tito's response has an unusual weight to it, like it comes from a place of wisdom. Tyson tucks it away, something to be examined later. There are more important things to talk about. "I just want that person to know that I'm cool with it."

"I mean, there's nothing wrong with bringing it up once? Just don't get offended when they refuse. Everyone is entitled to their secrets."

Tito's right. The best thing for JT right now is to act like this thing has not changed the way Tyson sees him. Maybe he can bring it up jokingly, like the easy way JT would tease him about his color choices, even as he helps Tyson find a pocket square that doesn't look stupid with his suit. Maybe he'll casually offer to rub one out with him, if JT ever ends up needing someone on short notice. Then he's gonna be cool whether or not JT takes him up on it.

-

"Why the fuck not?" Tyson asks, feeling suddenly hot. 

They're in Kerfy's room, pretending to help him assemble his IKEA furniture. Tyson, as a gesture of genuine friendship, has just made a standing offer for casual sex to help with the life energy feeding thing or whatever it is, and JT has not taken him up on it.

JT turns to Kerfy and sighs. "Why is he like this?"

"Don't look at me, I'm the one who tried to convince you that a simple lie of omission is allowed. Then you went all Thomas Aquinas on me with your ethics of lying bullshit."

JT throws metal joint at him. "Shut up, nerd." 

Kerfy lunges at him.

The mutinous feeling in Tyson's chest doesn't go away, and he watches his new housemates wrestle each other in frank disbelief. So yeah, maybe Tyson's just doesn't know what it feels like to be rejected--he knows what he looks like. But it's the immediacy of the dismissal that stung. _Uh, thanks. But that's not gonna be necessary_. He didn't even look up from reading the assembly manual for the Songesand dresser.

Tyson broaches the subject again when they became too tired for roughhousing. JT is lying on the floor, breathing heavily.

"So what, you already have a fuckbuddy on call already? Is that what it is?"

"Maybe you guys should get out of my room to talk about--"

"Fuck off, Kerfy," JT says, making a face before turning back to Tyson. "Look, when I first told you that this will not change anything, I meant it. It's just an inconvenience that occurs twice a month. Believe me, once the what-the-fuck of it fades, you'll forget that it's a thing."

-

Tyson doesn't forget about it.

Their very first game of the season against the Rangers is a win, and they celebrate in New York like a team that is finally not garbage. The Avs are occupying booths on a slightly elevated section of the club, a not-so-subtle bit of promotion that gets plastered on Instagram within the hour. They're all eating up the attention. Tyson spends most of the night dancing, stopping just long enough to finish off his drink and laugh at Kerfy for looking so red in the face already. Gabe walks tipsily towards the both of them, and they have fend off his bear hugs while dying of laughter.

Tyson doesn't think to track when midnight finally rolls in, but maybe fate has a way of making things fall into place. He had been scanning the place, idly looking for JT, when he finally spots him by the bar. JT says he doesn't change when it happens, but-- 

Leaning against the far corner of the bar, he starts rolling his shoulders and neck, like he's inhabiting his body in entirely new ways. His posture changes. He widens his stance. JT's eyes are trained towards the girl he was casually flirting with an a hour ago, a pretty brunette with smiling eyes. Tyson watches as JT straightens and starts walking--no, prowling--towards her, the look on his face making the hair on Tyson's arm stand up on end. JT licks his lips as he approaches her.

"Hey rook, why's your glass so empty?" Tyson Senior shouts against his ear, causing him to startle. He hits the fruity drink Tyson Senior has in his hand and splashes it between the two them. "Someone give Josty another vodka tonic! A virgin, though, gotta look out for our underagers."

"Isn't that just tonic water?" Nate cuts in.

"Who's asking you, Dogg?"

After, when Tyson finally looks back at the bar, JT and the girl are gone. No one else notices.

-

Tyson was having a good start to the season when Adam McQuaid runs into him. Things get even more miserable in the rookie house when JT breaks his thumb and gets sidelined indefinitely. They become a pair of misery ghouls haunting Kerfy's home and the Avs press box, coating everything with gloom. It's sort of nice in a perverse way, this rare feeling of solidarity. Tyson's been injured before, and it always made him feel isolated from his team, his teammates subconsciously acting like an ankle sprain is infectious somehow. At least he has a comrade in arms this time.

Except.

"I don't get why he's so cagey about this. Haven't I proven that I'm cool with it?" Tyson mutters as he smashes his thumbs at the controller buttons. He's not doing well in this game at all.

"Maybe he just knows you won't stop bringing it up if he gives you an opening," he hears Mat from his headset. Tyson is prevented from from responding as they scramble to reach the safe zone before the countdown. Together, they try hiding out at what looks like an empty house, but they get picked off by a redheaded dude and a lady in a cowboy costume. He and Mat groan in almost creepy unison.

If JT and he didn't have a little quarrel earlier, Tyson would've asked him to come over and help him be better at the game. For the last couple of days he'd been looking longingly at both Tyson and Kerfy as they play _Fortnite_ , his injured thumb putting a kibosh on him getting back to it anytime soon. But he has seemed vaguely crabby and intense since that morning, snapping at breakfast as he scrubbed every single one of the four pots they own. 

Kerfy made faces behind his back while he was getting ready morning skate and Tyson had to avert his eyes and shove his face with green juice to prevent himself from laughing. But then JT holed himself up in his room and wouldn't answer his invitations to hang out.

As a hunch, he downloaded a lunar calendar app from the Apple Store. True enough, it's apparently the new moon today. He looks up their opening night game against the Rangers: the full moon. Tyson doesn't quite know how to handle both JT's mood and this overwhelming bit of detective work he's done, which is why he tagged along to this inept squad mission with Mat. At least he has someone to talk to this way. 

Mat continues yapping in his ear. "Look, you're the kind of person who looks up at a mountain and think to yourself, why the hell not? I get it. Been there, done that. You're injured and bored, and you have all this pent-up Tyson energy without any kind of target for it. He can probably tell that this has been on your mind twenty-four hours a day."

Tyson makes an offended noise. "That's not true." Tyson just wants JT to tell him things, is all.

Mat snorts. "Just be less thirsty for it, man."

Another miserable round later--they're among that first ten people to get killed, which is somehow still a personal best for both of them--Tyson hears a door open and close. He mutters a hurried excuse at Mat before ripping off the headset and scurrying out.

He opens the door just in time to catch JT's back as he's turning toward the living room, a backpack slung over his shoulder. After a slight hesitation, Tyson follows him. JT's fishing out a charger from under the coffee table, then stuffing it in his bag. He is walking towards the stand where they keep the shoes when he finally notices Tyson. 

"Are you doing that thing? Hooking up? Because of the new moon." JT looks taken aback by that, so he raises his eyebrows mockingly. "Yeah, I know how to figure things out. I'm not the idiot that you take me for."

A series of expressions go through JT's face, but all he ever says to Tyson is, "Don't wait up for me."

"Your thumb's injured!" Tyson calls out belligerently.

JT gives him a withering look. "Well, I'm not gonna need my thumb to fuck, so I'm good."

Then he stalks out, slamming the door so hard that the sound echoes through the empty condo. Tyson stomps back to his room to talk to Mat again. He pours himself into being bad at _Fortnite_ , if only to block out the unwanted image of JT touching a stranger's skin, his hand clawing down their backs. His piercing eyes on them. 

He'll probably strike out with the cute ones. He deserves it.

-

When Tyson got hurt and had to rehab, he at least got to keep to Denver. But after the doctors finally cleared him to be on the ice, the coaching staff gently confronts him with another setback. One practice with the team makes it obvious how far Tyson has fallen behind, so they send him to San Antonio. He is living out of a hotel, exactly the way he did at the end of the last season, but instead of the giddy optimism that comes with finally reaching his dream job, all Tyson feels is dejection.

"How was your first game with the Rampage?" JT asks softly from Skype, and his voice doesn't even sync with his image on the screen.

Tyson shrugs, miserable.

"Josty--"

"I feel like I'm missing out on things. Like I'm not a part of the team anymore."

"Come on, that's ridiculous. You were are at the Mile High Dreams Gala four days ago. Your face is in all promotional materials. Does that sound like they're putting you aside?"

He hides his face into the pillow that he's clutching. It came with the hotel, so it doesn't smell like the detergent that they use in the house, and the cushion integrity is all wrong. Tyson has already complained about it to JT and his laughing response was at least not mean--he offered to FedEx Tyson his own pillows, but that felt like admitting that he's gonna stay in San Antonio for a while.

Tyson doesn't want to answer more questions about his place in the Avs anymore, so he deflects, mumbling, "So where did you do it? Nashville or Detroit?"

"Huh?"

"The thing with the moon," he mutters against the pillow. "I checked--it's today and it's already late if you haven't done it yet."

On the screen, JT starts scratching the back of his neck. "Uh, Detroit? I know someone, so." Then he starts fiddling with his phone.

Tyson doesn't have any response except the extremely invasive questions--it has to be someone on the Wings doesn't it?--so he keeps his mouth shut.

The Avs are on the second half of a back to back in Detroit, a game that they won in overtime. JT is still talking to him, however, his tired face a blur against the background of some random hotel room. He's informed Tyson the Kerfy is already snoring loudly on the other bed. It makes Tyson feel better, but it still causes a twinge of hurt in him. He wants to be where JT is, where he can help the team get wins.

JT looks back at him silently for a while, before he sighs, "If I tell you about my thing, are you gonna stop feeling sorry for yourself?"

The tips of Tyson's ears tingle with excitement. This time it's JT offering up information, and not because he's tired of Tyson badgering him. He shrugs again, shooting for nonchalance. "You don't have to, obviously. But I like knowing things about you."

A heavy pause hangs between them until Tyson adds, "We're friends."

Carding a hand through his hair, JT huffs. "Fine. But it's actually boring. Don't blame me if you fall asleep in the middle of it." He jostles his image as he leans back. "So. It happened when I was eighteen. It wasn't even on my birthday, isn't that weird?"

JT goes on a monologue and Tyson bites his lip to keep from interrupting him, afraid that any nudge with make him self-conscious and clam up.

It happened at a campus party, JT hearing the clock strike midnight on a night when the moon is full. He suddenly felt hot and not like himself. Already surrounded with drunk and horny college students, he didn't think twice about himself when he hooked up with one. Nothing else happened until two weeks later. He woke up feeling weird again, couldn't shake off the funk throughout the day. Later that night, he ended up in bed with a teammate. Things got awkward between them the day after. 

"Then I felt the feelings again after two weeks. That's when I started freaking out." JT says. 

"What kind of feelings?"

"I don't know, like my skin feels too thin or too tight? That's slightly insane." He looks up to the ceiling, Tyson watches as the hotel room lamp washes out one side of JT's face. "Anyway, my captain noticed at practice and sat me down. He knew about hockey curses and was calm through everything. Also, uh, got me through it again. Later he made me talk to the coach, and a couple of alumni who's had weird things happen to them as well. "

"Were the others sex-related?"

That makes JT laugh. "I'll never tell."

"Have you tried not doing it?" Tyson asks.

"Oh, yeah," JT clears his throat, not meeting Tyson's eyes. "Spent two weeks almost non-functional. The team had to invent an injury for me. And then during the new moon, one of my friends helped me out."

He doesn't ask for the guy's name and the team that drafted him, which is how Tyson knows he's growing as a person.

Tyson sits up and mirrors JT's position, leaning against the headrest of is own bed, planting the laptop on his lap. There's a question that is still needling at him--sometimes when he opens his mouth to talk to JT, he gets worried that it'll tumble out of his mouth in all its embarrassing glory. But tonight, with the way JT opened up to him, he allows himself to be brave. Asks, "Why don't you want to do it with me? If you've done it with teammates? With friends."

A complicated series of expressions flit through JT's face in a second, before he answers. "We just don't need that kind of complication, Josty."

"Why? What makes this any different?"

"Because we're in the fucking NHL, man. The thing we've spent our lives working for. I won't let anything fuck it all up, for you or for me."

Tyson opens his mouth, ready to argue against it, but what does he say?

"I know you're doing this because you want to be a good friend," he gives Tyson a small, pixelated smile. "But don't worry about me Tys, I'm not hard up."

-

Tyson books an Uber to the airport the minute he gets the news of his recall from Sakic, dumping all his dirty laundry in an empty garbage bag that he begs off of room service. He almost forgets to call for an attendant to help him haul his shit because he's too busy texting the equipment manager of the Rampage about what to do with his hockey sticks. Then--when he's safely ensconced in a standard everything-is-bigger-in-Texas SUV--he begs his mother to book the earliest flight to Denver.

"I can't get their booking app to work. Come on, mom," he says piteously. The Uber driver side-eyes him.

The overnight flight that his mom gets him will arrive at Denver International at 6:30 AM, but can't give any more of a fuck. The excitement sustains him for the two-hour wait time and the additional two hours of the flight. He starts flagging a little when he slides into the taxi that's taking him home, but it doesn't matter. He's close.

Just the mere act of putting his key to the lock is enough to make him feel giddy. He can't help the grin on his face.

Tyson arrives to an empty condo--makes sense, JT and Kerfy are probably on their way to practice--and dives into his bed. He's out before he can even contemplate how tired he feels. The slanting light of the sunset wakes him hours later, and he groans as he rolls out of the bed, feeling parched. He gets a whiff of something delicious in the air, buttery and toasted. After he goes to the bathroom, he makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he sees Kerfy on the counter slicing up strawberries and JT by the stove, his back to Tyson.

"Hey guys," he croaks.

"Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in." Kerfy calls out. He moves towards Tyson and holds his face with strawberry-sticky fingers before kissing both Tyson on both cheeks. He's too tired to try and get away.

"Welcome home," JT says, raising a spatula at him in salute.

"Uh, what's with the kitchen nightmares situation? Is this for me?"

"Blame the ginger over there," Kerfy motions towards JT, who's already turned his back to tend to the waffle maker. "Well, we were going to cook a breakfast for dinner thing. Sakic's text told us to expect you tonight. I didn't expect you to beam down immediately like a Star Trek character. You sleep like the cryptkeeper, dude."

Tyson sweeps through the chaos of their kitchen, littered with fruit, butter, cracked egg shells, spray cans of whipped cream. They didn't forget him after all. He walks towards the waffle-maker and stands next JT. "Did you buy a waffle-maker, buddy?"

"Nah, Gabe made us drive to his house so we could borrow it. He also made us promise never to tell TBear that we know how to make waffles because he's gonna want to live with us forever."

That makes Tyson laugh through a yawn. A few minutes after admiring JT's handiwork, he gets impatient and bumps his hips against JT's. "Let me help, I'm a better cook than either of you." 

He squawks when JT puts him in an unexpected headlock. There's a bit of struggle--probably ill-advised while near a hot cooking implement--but Tyson is giggling too much to put up any credible fight.

-

Tyson breaks JT down at the Christmas party, thanks to Tyson Senior's superior DJ-ing skills. He and JT are at one of those cozy nooks by the buffet table when _Jingle Bell Rocks_ comes on, and Tyson beams when he recognizes the tune.

"I love this song! It's from _Mean Girls_." Already tipsy from the mulled wine, Tyson grabs at JT's arm and tries to drag him to the makeshift dance floor at the other room. Despite drinking about as much as him, however, JT doesn't budge.

"No way. Sports science said I shouldn't do activities that aggravate my injury."

"You injured your thumb, asshole!" 

JT laughs unrepentantly. "Maybe so. But the answer's still no. Feel free to dance without me, though."

Frustrated that he can't move JT, Tyson gives up and puts his arms around JT's shoulders, sloshing a bit of the mulled wine in his mug. He then proceeds to coax JT into swaying in place.

"Come on, this song is a jam," he says, before singing off-tune, " _Jingle Bell time, it's a swell time--_ "

He laughs when JT actually sings along, a surprisingly warm baritone. He may also be swinging a little. Behind JT, Tyson can see Gabe and EJ staring at them as they walk towards the buffet table. EJ has his demonic smirk on, and Game has both of his very blond eyebrows way up in judgment. Tyson chooses to ignore them, warmed by the alcohol and the arm that JT finally puts around him. They sink further into the nook.

"You're gonna have to find someone tomorrow instead," he whispers without meaning to. Tyson wishes he can literally snatch those words out of the air before JT can hear them.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

He can feel it when JT finally realizes what he means. His shoulders stiffen, the warm hand on Tyson's back dropping away. It's only because Tyson refuses the unlock his arms from JT's neck that he doesn't step back.

"You can't even let yourself enjoy the holidays without it bothering you," JT says, his tone dead. JT is glaring at him, frustration and hurt evident in his face.

It's too much, and Tyson has to break eye contact. "I'm not bothered--"

"Then why do you keep bringing it up?"

"I'm bringing it up," he says haltingly. His lips feel suddenly dry. "Exactly because I'm not bothered by it."

JT looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head in disbelief. "What did TBear put in that mulled wine?"

"Come on, you know it's not the alcohol talking." Grasping blindly for JT's free hand, he curls his fingers over his bony wrist. "Don't you wonder about it?"

"Christ, here we go--"

Something in hot in his chest flares at the dismissive tone in JT's voice. He snaps, "Fuck off, man, I know how you look at me sometimes."

That shuts JT all the way up. Eyes wide as they look back at him. They're finally going somewhere.

"And I know you know how I look at you sometimes. I'm just saying any second now it's gonna strike midnight. And you're gonna start feeling that thing you talked about before. The itch. And it's gonna bother you until you get with someone. Anyone will do. So why not deal with this early and do it with me?"

He's still close enough to JT when he recognizes it--midnight has come, the moon at the height of its power--the change in the way JT feels against him. The way the irises of his eyes dilate, like he's taking in Tyson's entire form. A distant part of Tyson's brain recognizes that that they're in public, at a team function. But the lights are low save for the fairly lights strewn throughout Tyson Barrie's house, and it's like the crowd is falling away from them. They're still in the middle of their argument, but this feels like a punctuation mark. 

"God, you're impossible."

He puts a hand on JT's cheek, and an involuntary shiver starts at his neck at the feel of it against his fingertips, it travels the length of his back before pooling down down down. JT must sense how the moon is affecting him as well, his eyes gaining a calculating glint. He turns his head towards Tyson's palm and licks at it. Tyson gasps--and just like that, he's half-hard and uncomfortable in his jeans. JT says he doesn't put people in thrall, but who wouldn't want to get with JT when he's looking like this?

"Say it again. Say it's not the alcohol talking."

"This is not the alcohol talking. I want you."

JT shudders against him, his eyes closed. Then he whispers, almost too softly to be heard, "Call us an Uber then. I'm not doing anything here."

The time between the Christmas party and Tyson's bedroom is frankly a blur, reality refusing to solidify unless JT is putting his mouth and his hands on Tyson. They don't even get to the bed, JT grabbing at his hips and parking him on the wall next to his bedroom door. They kiss for what feels like forever, and it makes him ache for everything. JT keeps biting his lips, making him gasp. 

JT takes a step back. Tyson cranes his neck, trying to keep the contact with JT's mouth.

"Last chance to back out."

Blinking his eyes open, vision is struggling with the darkness but he watches the shadows play against JT's face as he falls on his knees in front of Tyson. He shakes his head to no one in particular. A shudder runs through him, blood thundering in his ears as JT pushes his shirt up to reveal his stomach. God, he can't believe it's really happening.

His pants fall to the floor in a rustle from JT's ministrations, his boxers following them--JT's hands get surer by the second, running up the length of his inner thigh. Partly to get him flustered, maybe, because he can feel JT's smile against his stomach when he whimpers. A hand moves to grasp the base of Tyson's cock, the other bracing Tyson against the wall. Then JT's lips touch the tip of his length, soft and almost chaste, and Tyson wonders if this has been a mistake. Because everyone from now on will be measured against this moment, leaving Tyson forever wondering if it's the moon that's making his body sing and not just JT's hot, beautiful mouth.

His hands clutch at JT's curls, and he closes his eyes just as tightly. His hips jerk as JT starts drawn-out sucking kisses along his length, then at the tip, before taking his cock into his mouth, wet and sloppy and enough to make Tyson's toes curl inside his shoes.

Tyson sucks in a desperate breath. "Fuck, that's so good--" 

JT looks up at the sound of his voice, holding his gaze for a moment before reaching to unfurl one of Tyson's fisted hands, guiding it to his jaw. Then he bends down and takes Tyson in again, until his lips reach the base of Tyson's dick. And Tyson is almost certain he is falling apart every time JT tightens his lips--with every wet swipe of his tongue, with every grunt that echoes against his skin. Tyson's hips start to jerk, thrusting out involuntarily, and JT lets him. 

"Please."

JT groans, a sound that Tyson feels viscerally to the tips of his toes and it gets him over the edge, coming with a shout. In a faraway universe, he might be gasping out something infinitely more stupid aside from JT's name. But he's way past caring, his only concern is making this feeling last and last. 

So this is how it feels to have your life energy literally sucked out of you.

He murmurs his protests when JT pulls away and stands up, offering his hand to and leading them both towards the bed. It's a measly five steps but Tyson's legs are shaky, so he clings against JT's side.

-

He falls asleep before he could offer to get JT off as well. But he wakes up warm and comfortable in the morning, with JT's arm slung over him, so he isn't that embarrassed. He'll reciprocate next time.

Kerfy is already frying eggs when Tyson walks into the kitchen. He hones in on the brewing coffee pot, and pours himself a mug. He briefly contemplates pouring another one and bringing it to JT, but he reconsiders. That boy deserves his rest.

"Be less happy," Kerfy grouses from the stove. "You're tainting the taste of the coffee."

Tyson clamps his lips together to keep himself from smiling, and just shrugs sheepishly.

-

Two weeks later, Tyson stares impatiently at the clock display on his phone until it flips to 12:00 AM. New moon. Then he sneaks out of his room and into JT's room. Crawls into his bed.

JT stirs at the movement of the mattress before jerking awake. "Huh? T-Tys? What--"

"Shh, scoot over, I can't free the blanket," Tyson says as he tugs at the sheets that have wrapped around JT in his sleep. When they're finally loose, he shifts closer and rubs against the length of JT's sleep-warm body, a hand reaching downwards to peel away his boxers.

"This isn't--Are you serious?"

Tyson just hums his assent as he nuzzles his nose against the hair that runs down JT's abs, the trail leading him to JT's already half-hard cock. He must've started chubbing up the moment the clock struck midnight, even in his sleeping state. Moon power is absolutely wild.

Tyson takes him into his mouth, moaning shamelessly at the taste. JT's apparently demanding when he's only half asleep--a hand reaches for the back of his head, trying to keep Tyson in place as his hips move more forcefully. In response, Tyson relaxes his jaw and clutches at his thigh, urging JT to use him. The small, punched out noises that JT makes above him is lighting up every nerve in his body.

After he makes JT come in his mouth--his muttered _God you take it so good_ still ringing in Tyson's ears--he rests his cheek against JT's thigh and murmurs dreamily, "How convenient is this, hmm? Now you can just focus on the game later."

-

He doesn't proceed to mark down every full moon and new moon on his Google calendar. But it's a close thing.

On the next big day, Tyson misses the wake up call that he requested from the concierge of the Winnipeg Radisson, so he doesn't get the chance to greet JT with another morning blowjob before they're due for practice. But maybe that's for the best, because having to watch pent-up, moon energy-deprived JT is something to behold.

He's attacking every battle drill with a ferocity that makes even Gabe whistle with approval. He's checking the guys hard during puck battles, pushing himself and his edgework. Tyson tries not to stare at him when he's just standing around, his brows furrowed in concentration every time Bednar calls him over and coaches him. 

The focus is turning Tyson on.

After practice, JT doesn't get into the shower like the rest of them--probably because of the already half-hard thing that Tyson observed the last time they had sex--so he's already dressed when Tyson emerges from the showers. His black backpack is already slung over his shoulders.

"What's the hurry?" he greets JT, lightly teasing. He's probably as eager to hook up as Tyson is. "You're still gonna have to wait for me to get dressed, you know."

"Actually, uh," JT clears his throat, scratching at his nose. He isn't looking at Tyson. "I'm actually heading out already? Uh, I'm meeting someone."

"Who?" Tyson asks, gobsmacked.

"Just someone."

"You haven't even showered--" he splutters nonsensically. Seriously, what. "You must be smelly."

JT just turns away and shrugs. "What do you care? That's a me problem."

Tyson gapes at him as he walks towards the door and round the corner.

-

"What do you know about Tyler Motte?"

Duber makes a face at him over Skype and asks, "Why do you want to know about an old teammate who just got traded?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Just wanted to learn more about an upcoming opponent."

Tyson can't suppress the voice in his head calling him a big fat liar. The reason why the name is bouncing around his head like a ping pong ball is a late night trawl through the _Elite Prospects_ page for the University of Michigan, as well as numerous articles about the Wolverines' old record-setting forward line made up of JT Compher, Kyle Connor, and Tyler Motte. Tyson has figured out that Connor was probably the guy that JT met up back in Winnipeg. If JT is holding true to this pattern, he's surely gonna hit up Motte when they touch down in Vancouver tomorrow. The evidence is as clear as day.

"He's been having a rough time with the trade," Pierre-Luc tells him. "Don't be a dick to him."

"What the fuck, Duber? Why do you think I would do that?"

"Well, you look like a spoiled child who's sulking because a toy got taken away from him."

That makes Tyson squirm in guilt. 

Tyson has tried to confront JT about the Winnipeg thing more than once, but he stubbornly plays dumb every time. It's like he knows Tyson can't very well shriek, _Who did you sleep with?_ like a jealous girlfriend. He's not--they're not like that.

Talking to Kerfy has also been bust. Every time Tyson gets him alone, he starts to loudly sing college sports chants, drowning out Tyson's attempts to even broach the subject. When he despairingly demands why Kerfy is being difficult, he responds that being an agony aunt is way above his pay grade, and he did not specialize in psycho-social diplomatic relations.

All Tyson could say in response is, "Stop using smart words at me. Everyone already knows you came from Harvard."

So he's using the internet to gather intel on every NHLer that became JT's teammate. So what? As if he's not gonna rifle through every tool at his disposal to shuck JT Compher wide open.

Pierre-Luc crosses his arms, the scoldy expression still firmly on his face. "Seriously, I'm gonna hear about this if you don't drop the subject. I mean it, Tys."

"Fine! I'm not gonna crosscheck Tyler Motte. You're so unreasonable."

-

Tyson tries to keep his word. For a whole three weeks, he actually thinks he's succeeding. Then on the afternoon before the new moon, Tyson goes and drops a grenade on himself. They're eating dinner on the couch with Kerfy while _The Walking Dead_ is playing on TV. Tyson, having polished off his plate and transferred his attention to the episode, opens his mouth, fully intending to ask about a confusing plot point, when something else stumbles out instead.

"So who's it gonna be?" Tyson asks JT. He immediately regrets opening his mouth, but he pushes on anyway. "From the Wild, I mean."

There's a stillness the comes over the room, almost as tense as the standoff on the screen, before Kerfy starts to stand up and head towards direction of the bedrooms.

"I'm gonna go to bed and put headphones on. See you tomorrow!"

On the other end of the couch, JT still hasn't moved a muscle. Then, just as someone onscreen is about to get bitten and turned, he reaches for the remote and turns it off. His next words start off chillingly calm. "Do you want me to move out? Is that it?"

"What? No." Tyson stares at the side of JT's face in alarm. "I would never."

"Then why the fuck are you making me feel so unwelcome here? What is your problem with me? So yes, I'm pretty morally sketch but--" JT growls, standing up and pacing away from Tyson. "It's not like can help it!"

"I don't think you're morally sketch." Tyson says finally, his voice small.

"Just a giant slut, then."

"No--"

"Then I'm stumped. And frankly, I don't think I have the energy to figure out what goes on in that head of yours that makes it think it's alright to punish me like this." 

He stands up as as well, holding his still half-full plate, and heads for the kitchen. When he comes back a few seconds later, he doesn't go towards the bedroom like Kerfy did. Instead, he stalks towards the front door and grabs the his car key from the hook.

Tyson's blood runs cold as he watches him. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"JT, wait. I--"

JT ignore him, shoving the door open and stepping out. The door clicks shut, and the silence that surrounds Tyson is deafening.

"You okay?" a voice says, startling him. He looks over by the hallway and Kerfy is there, leaning against the wall. Tyson doesn't know how long he's been standing there, or how long he's been staring at the closed door.

He shakes his head, then he slumps into the couch and curls to his side. He hears Kerfy sigh before he hears footsteps getting closer. The couch cushions dip against Kerfy's weight. "Fine. I was trying to maintain Swiss-like neutrality to respect Comphy's wishes, but since this is an emergency, go on and tell Dear Abby your troubles."

"Do you think he's gonna move out?" He turns his face to look up at Kerfy.

He shrugs, and it's that gesture that make the corners of Tyson's eyes prickle. Fuck, even he doesn't know if Tyson's fucked up beyond repair. He bites his lips, afraid to speak his mind now. "I wasn't trying to make him feel--feel bad about himself. Or that I don't want him here. I want the opposite of that."

"I know, bud. But you intimidate JT a little." 

"What? Why?"

"The usual reason, I imagine."

"Huh?"

"Come off it. You know you're like a human freight train."

He bites at his thumb, shamed. "I know that. That I'm a lot. But I just want to know about him. I don't understand why he needs so many other people. When you're here, and I'm here, and the team is here." He pauses, worrying his lip. "Aren't we enough?"

"Bud. I know you Skype your Team Canada friends almost every night. Have you ever heard Comphy complain or tease you about it?"

A beat. "No."

"So don't you think you're being a little hypocritical here?"

"But that's different, I don't--" _I don't sleep with them._

"So maybe you're interrogating the question from the wrong perspective. Why do you hate it so much that he sleeps with them? You know the reason he does it; he's always been upfront. They all know him, and care about him enough to help him. You should be glad he has that support system."

"Yeah, but I want--"

And Tyson wants what? He wants--

He wants JT to like him best out of everyone. He wants JT to turn to him first. He wants JT to one day forget about calendars or when the new moon is supposed to happen because Tyson is already there anyway, filling up the hours of JT's day.

"Oh my God."

"Yup," Kerfy says agreeably. "How good am I at epiphanies, right?"

-

Tyson apparently didn't need to worry that JT is gonna disappear on him for the rest of the night. He comes home later, and actually knocks on Tyson's bedroom door.

"Hey Tys, can we talk?" he asks, his voice muffled.

Tyson jolts upright on the bed, and pats his head to try and tame his curls. Recognizing a nervous tic, he folds them over his chest and calls out, "Come in!" 

JT opens the door a crack, peering to look at him before he finally steps in, closing the door. He's rubbing a hand through his own hair, messing it up. Looking at him hurts.

"So, uh, I've thought things through. And I've figured out a way to address what's happening between us right now."

"Me too!" Tyson exclaims, then babbles, "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. Go on. Uh, sit down? There's like, the bed or the desk chair or the floor--"

He closes his mouth shut as JT moves to take the desk chair, turning to face Tyson. Then JT takes a deep breath and says, "I've called Mikko and he said he has room to put me up on the short term. We might be able to get Girard to sublet my room, or maybe get one of the eventual call-ups so--"

Tyson's heart is a bird flinging itself against his ribs. "Wait, hold on. What?"

"In the name of our friendship, I'm gonna need to take a step back." JT says, looking down on the carpeted floor. "Just so we can decompress."

He's actually reached it, the limits of JT's patience. He feels as if his chest is collapsing into itself, like he's getting boarded and crushed under the weight of a mountain. He slouches and puts his arms over his churning stomach. He doesn't even get to tell JT how he feels.

"I fucked this all up, didn't I? I'm so sorry."

"Oh man, hey. This isn't your--Josty, please don't cry."

"Why not?" he mutters, angrily swiping at his eyes. "You're firing me as your friend."

"I'm doing this exactly because I want to keep you as a friend." JT braces his arms on his knee and leans forward. "I need the time and space to get over you, okay?"

"W-what?"

It's like JT doesn't hear him. "It's getting hard, trying not to resent you for not returning my feelings. To not feel like everything that you say or do is a slight against me. It's just not fair to you."

"But I do," Tyson says, dumbfounded. "I do return the feelings." He may have taken until today to articulate the emotions that have been raging inside him, but looking back, he's definitely had them for a long time.

JT gives him a sad smile in return. "Not the kind that I have. It would be something else if I was just a dude, right? Then I'd be able to do things that normal guys do. I might try to test the waters, see if there's an interest there. Maybe flirt a little. And maybe halfway through the season, if you look like you're into it, I might ask you out. That would be a normal, non-fucked up way to get together."

He leans back, lets out a frustrated sigh. "But it's like this curse has gotten stuff twisted up and wrong. You're acting like it's a no-brainer thing for friends to do--"

"That's not what I think." 

"Dude, you bug me about it every fucking time--"

"Because I don't want anyone else touching you!"

JT goes so still.

"What does that mean?"

"It's like--every time you leave it's all I'm thinking of. Who you're trying to get with. If it's some other good friend who's known you for years and knows what you like and--" Tyson feels so hot, the atmosphere in the room making him short of breath. "--and how I want that to be me. Just me."

"Tys--"

"I know you think I'm spouting bullshit--"

"Don't say that, you know I'll always believe you. But the timing--Tomorrow. I feel like we've been down this road before."

Tyson groans in frustration. "Ugh, this has nothing to do with your sex demon powers! Go ahead and find some other rando tomorrow. Hook up with them. It's only going to break my heart to a million pieces but whatever."

Then he levels a look at JT's shell-shocked face. "Then after that, you go and find me. I'll tell you exactly the same thing."

-

Later on, Tyson gets out of bed in the middle of the night to get water. He leans sleepily against the refrigerator door as he drains the glass. Distantly, he hears a bedroom door open, then sounds of bare feet on the marble floor. 

"Hey," he hears JT say, and he mumbles back a greeting. For a split second, he forgets that there's a question hanging in the air, and lets the companionable silence sit between them. But then. 

"I don't want it."

"What?"

"I don't want some rando."

Tyson credits his superior athletic reflexes for preventing his nerveless fingers from dropping the glass to the floor. He clutches at it desperately, before putting it back on the counter. Then he turns slowly towards JT.

"Is that so?"

"I mean, yeah."

"What about buddies?"

"Nah, I've tried that. I don't want buddies either." JT quirks his lips into a sly smile. "They're kind of of overrated."

"So what are you looking for?"

"Maybe feelings. If you've got some to spare."

Tyson licks his lips. "Only about a billion."

The next thing he knows, he is pushed against the refrigerator and JT's warm hands are cupping his face and Tyson is blessedly spared from having to form another coherent sentence again.

**Author's Note:**

> RE: TAGS. The 'mildly dubious consent' tag is a blanket warning for being an Incubus AU and a scene where one participant is awakened for sex. The plot also involves one character insistently offering to have casual sex with another on multiple occasions, despite being initially rebuffed. All instances of sex portrayed are consenting.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> \- Happy Holidays, junkeroni! I hope my take on Josty/Comphy works for you. 🙈
> 
> \- [Tyson Jost's Thirst Mix on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2YxfaIyToNmhQGg7RZKNAR)
> 
> \- For plot purposes, I changed some things to move along the plot. For example, I moved the December game against the Pens so the fictional Avs Christmas party coincides with the full moon. I also pretended that JT didn't have a second injury that season. I also moved the last Vancouver game against the Avs so that it coincides with the full moon AND it would have Tyler Motte playing in it. I really just want Pierre-Luc Dubois being a disappointed dad at Josty.
> 
> \- I recognize that this is the handwavy-est incubus lore in all of creation. I also didn't address whether it's a curse or something innate to JT. My money is on hockey curse that goes away when the instigator dies or something. Tyson ends up missing it.
> 
> \- My twitter: worthhellabucks


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